


Living the Dream

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Depression, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 21:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I knew you were in a mood!” Castiel grins with pride. The expression is infectious, so simple in its sincerity. “Work again?”</p><p>Crowley should lie, placate Castiel and let him rejoin his friends. But the liquor has loosened his world-weary tongue. “Have you ever felt tired, Cas? Of everything?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living the Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an Alternate Universe meme. The prompt was Crowstiel + Roommates AU. Enjoy!

Home is all Crowley needs. 

His fire escape, an awkward climb through his bedroom window. Fresh air is worth the sore knees and back. He has a glass of whiskey in hand and a view of the sun setting behind walls of brick and concrete. Around him, a forest of cable wires and satellite dishes, littered by roof-tanning twenty-somethings.

He cringes down a sip of his whiskey. This is glass number three in quick succession. He can't drink like he used to and should know better. But this evening is an exception. An unpleasant opportunity to contemplate everything wrong with his life. 

He hears faint music from the living room, laughter beyond his closed door.

Crowley does not mean to be a stick in the mud. He’s just had another shit day in a parade of shit days. There is no end in sight. What end, when one is on the wrong side of 40 with a bloody roomate? No spouse, no children, not even a car! It’s all a bit of a downer, isn’t it? 

Crowley is the Eeyore of the apartment. He slogs in nightly, hunched under the weight of budgets tumbling around him. 

He had to fire three teammates today. Three. Good people. Hard workers. Never did anything wrong.

One cried. Peter, the young one. It must have been the first time. There is always the first time; a reminder that no one in business cares how bright or quick you are. A job is a job. No one is indispensable. 

The older ones are worse, like Mary. Mary didn’t cry. She is married with two boys, on the wrong side of fifty. 

Mary just nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Crowley. Do I turn my badge in to you?” 

Crowley hisses down his next gulp. He’s beginning to feel it, a heat in his cheeks that pricks behind his eyelids. But the tear ducts have long since dried. There have been many days like today. And many other days when Crowley sat where the three did. Packed up his single box and left. He started over again, scrounged and clawed, picked up a roommate here and there. Made it back to where he was before, only to find the same hell waiting on the other side.

Crowley returned home to a full assembly in the living room. Castiel and his peers. Their show is starting off-Broadway in a month. Crowley finds theater folk loud and odd, but generally friendly. They lounged in their jeans and cool t-shirts, bands and causes Crowley has never heard of. 

Castiel sat in the middle. He grinned when Crowley slogged in. “Pizza’s on the way. Sausage and peppers with your name on it, Crowley.” 

“Hello,” he offered with a forced smile. “I’m not hungry. Please, though.” The death of the party. 

On evenings like these, Crowley wishes he could live the dream of this country. Family is not in the cards at this point. But his own place, surely. A home of his own!

Oh, it’s not Castiel. They actually gel rather beautifully. Crowley is an early riser, Castiel is not. He showers long before Castiel stumbles out of bed. Sometimes he joins Crowley for coffee. Most times, Crowley just brews enough for two. Castiel buys toilet paper when it’s his turn, and he sets aside leftovers when Crowley works late. With his rehearsal schedule, many weekends Crowley has his run of the place. Crowley cleans their common areas, and Castiel does the same. No dirty dishes in the sink or laundry to pick up.

These occasional group visits are the only detriment to their partnership. But Castiel’s friends seem like a lovely group. They’ve yet to stain or break anything of value. Somehow, this friendliness almost makes things worse. Crowley can't even begrudge this invasion of his personal space. It's his own fault that he does not have a group of his own. And it's his own fault that he cannot bring himself to join them.

Castiel must have seen Crowley’s discomfort. “I should have texted,” he mumbled. Just like that, Crowley was the bad guy again. Of course. Isn’t he always, in whatever walk of life? 

The group looked at him - a wary, anticipating quiet. They may be cordial, but they are not his friends. He is ‘other’ to them. Co-inhabitant of their friend’s space. They waited for drama, sitting up on their seats. 

Crowley was far too old and tired to oblige. “You don’t have to ask. I’m happy you’re all here.” Crowley forced another smile and ducked away to his room. At least he had his own liquor for in his closet. And a fire escape with a view of a city he sometimes loves, sometimes hates. He doubts he will ever live up to it. Time is running out.

He frowns at the sound of sneakers hitting metal. Castiel, crawling through his bedroom window. “You didn’t answer when I knocked,” Castiel says. He’s even thought to wear his sunglasses; Crowley squints into the setting sun. 

“Please, entertain your friends,” Crowley replies. “My mood has nothing to do with them-”

“I _knew_ you were in a mood!” Castiel grins with pride. The expression is infectious, so simple in its sincerity. “Work again?”

Crowley should lie, placate Castiel and let him rejoin his friends. But the liquor has loosened his world-weary tongue. “Have you ever felt tired, Cas? Of everything?”

“Yes.” Castiel joins him at the rail. He eyes the half-empty bottle of Jack on the ground. “How full was that when you started?” 

“You know what I don't need? A mother,” Crowley mutters. “My own is bitch enough.”

His humor tends to fall flat with most people. But Castiel laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. He is so genuine, so affecting, Crowley can almost buy that Castiel enjoys his company. That, somehow, they would be friends even without split costs on an apartment.

“Have I seen you drunk before?” Castiel leans back on the rail, watching Crowley with an amused smile. He is long, strong, and beautiful. Living with Castiel does nothing for Crowley’s sense of self-worth. 

Still, he enjoys Castiel’s company. Crowley hasn’t had a contentious one in many years. But Castiel is the first he can remember liking beyond the living convenience. 

That isn’t based on looks, of course. But the looks don’t hurt… Christ. Maybe he’s had more to drink than he realized. 

“You caught me. Here's the real reason I declined your invite.” Crowley toasts his glass. “I’m a piss-poor drunk.” Castiel chuckles. Crowley can see his own reflection in the lenses of his sunglasses. 

Castiel opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but stops. He smiles instead, reclining on the rail. He arches back to let the sun hit his face.

“I’m fine,” Crowley tries to appease him again. “Thank you for checking in, but-” 

“You kicking me out?” 

Crowley raises a brow. “Your friends-” 

He trails off when Castiel snatches his glass. The remaining contents are drained in one healthy swallow. Castiel's Adam's apple bobs; Crowley swallows in kind. Definitely too much whiskey. Or too little. He is cognizant of every action. Every interpretation.

Crowley laughs abruptly. He takes the glass back from Castiel and bends to retrieve his bottle. He refills the tumbler, still grinning as he screws the top back into place. “Life is a strange beast, know that?” 

“Yes. Hard to know which way the wind will blow next.” 

Crowley sighs. “See? I miss that. The uncertainty of life, when my best years were still ahead of me. There was time, you know?”

“You're not dead, Crowley.” Castiel eyes him. “Life is still in front of you.”

Crowley snorts. “Come on, Cas, What does one do if they’re restless at my age? Go back to school? Get a bloody Tinder?” 

“Don’t,” Castiel advises. “It’s…strange.” 

Crowley smiles. Tinder or not, Castiel does not suffer in this department. They have a system, a bandanna on the bedroom door knob. Crowley is an accommodating sort. He keeps earplugs by his bed for this very reason. 

“I’ve resigned myself to my life. I’m satisfied with it. I think. I don’t know.” Crowley shrugs and swallows his fresh whiskey, grimacing at the burn. “…I think I’m drunk.”

“And you're still drinking,” Castiel points out.

Crowley chuckles. He holds out the glass, allowing Castiel to help himself. While Castiel drinks, he rubs the tiredness from his eyes. 

“I'm not sure what you should do about the job,” Castiel says. “But I think you’d be happier if work wasn’t everything. If you had…I don’t know, something else.”

“Perhaps I could take up botany.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Anything!” He waves his hands for emphasis. “Like, come sit with us.” He shrugs. “Not saying we’re the best crowd, but who knows? You might enjoy yourself. Or at least get your mind off whatever’s in there now.”

“I wouldn’t inflict myself on your company-” 

“Stop saying we don’t want to be with you,” Castiel tells him. Crowley thinks it's meant to be a joke, but Castiel sounds too serious. Or maybe it’s the whiskey.

“I like spending time with you,” Crowley admits. He looks down at the streets with bleary eyes. “You’re relentlessly positive. It’s disgusting.” 

“Thanks.” 

“You can’t blame me for feeling like a bit of a drag," Crowley remarks. “Especially around that group. Bubbly, delightful little people, your friends. Pretty. Interesting-”

“You’re interesting,” Castiel argues. He tilts his head. “Maybe not ‘pretty.’ You’re…refined.”

Crowley snorts. “Smooth as this whiskey. Which is _not_ very smooth-” He smothers a hiccup behind a fist.

“I like spending time with you too,” Castiel says.

Crowley nods. Their personalities, opposite though they seem, gel for whatever reason. He still isn’t sure what Castiel gets out of this though. Look at that lovely brood in the living room. Why was someone like Castiel in need of a roommate in the first place? 

“I like you,” Castiel tells him. “Have since we met.”

“Watch it, Cas," Crowley grouses. "You’ll make a fellow blush.” He’s already a pleasant pink, warm with the alcohol in his system. 

“Is that a bad thing?” 

Crowley raises a brow. No, no. He's heard it wrong. Whiskey again. Gods, no wonder Crowley cut back.

“Save it for one of your many dates,” Crowley says. He smiles to show he’s kidding. 

The sky has taken on a purplish hue, final slivers of the sun sinking beneath a horizon of buildings. Crowley lifts his head at the faint dig of their door bell. Castiel's cue to leave. Just as well. "Thanks,” Crowley says. He should add something else, let Castiel know how much their friendship means to him. But all he manages is, “Pizza’s here.”

“Yes.” Castiel should be climbing back through the window. Now leaning closer, arms folded on the rail.

“You have the cash?” Crowley asks. He tilts his head. Why are they so close? Castiel is nearly on top of him.

“They can sign for it,” Castiel mumbles. “On my card.” He lowers his head, a brush of his mouth against Crowley's. Crowley twitches back. What in the world? 

“Cas?” It’s the whiskey messing up his perception. This is another joke, yes? 

“Stop thinking,” Castiel says. He places a hand on Crowley's arm and leans in to kiss him again. Crowley freezes, but he doesn't pull away again. Just stares questioningly into his own reflection in Castiel's sunglasses. 

Castiel's fingers drop from his arm. A thumb swipes Crowley's jaw, a lazy scratch through his beard that makes Crowley groan, caught off-guard. “Castiel-”

“Stop.” The thumb dips beneath his chin, stroking through stubble. Crowley’s mouth pops open. A gasp is lost against Castiel’s lips.

Crowley thinks to push him off, but his fingers only succeed in tangling in Castiel’s shirt. “What are you doing?” Crowley asks. 

Castiel looks at him, his mouth red, chapped. Crowley licks his own in sympathy. 

“Something I should have done a long time ago,” Castiel admits. 

Crowley chuckles. He knows what this is now. Oh, Cas… 

He runs his hands up Castiel’s sides; toned, firm. Christ, he is beautiful. Light years out of Crowley’s league. “Thank you.” Crowley bows back, ever the realist. He appreciates the courtesy, but he can’t be a pity case, no matter how good this feels. It’s been a long time since he allowed himself this kind of luxury - to be kissed, touched. “You don’t have to-” 

His back hits the rail with a clank. Crowley hisses surprise at the force of Castiel pressing him down. Castiel hooks fingers into his t-shirt, kiss hard enough to bruise.

Crowley winds arms around his waist instinctively. Gods, he’s strong, cut into his jeans at an unfair angle. Crowley’s hands wander up his back. He’s seen Castiel post-shower, crossing the apartment to his room. But his shoulder blades feel even better than they looked, broad and firm. Crowley has to choke back a moan, just at the way Castiel fits in his arms.

“No, I don't have to,” Castiel tells him. His voice is low, a 180 from anything Crowley has heard from him before. “Get it?”

Crowley nods, speechless. But he doesn't get it. This doesn't make sense!

“Come back out with me,” Castiel says. He slides a thumb over Crowley’s lips. They stutter open, an unsteady breath between them.

Crowley shakes his head. He can’t form words. 

Castiel relents with an amused huff. “I’ll be back then.”

Against Crowley’s better judgment, he nods. “If this is what you want.” 

“Is it what you want?”

“Yes,” Crowley says. He doesn't understand what's happening, but he isn't about to say no.

Castiel removes his sunglasses, showing soft eyes in the low light of dusk. He nods, barely visible, and climbs back through the window.

As he retreats, Crowley knows this should not happen. No matter how badly he’s felt, no matter how much he wants it. This will change everything. But Crowley still waits, anticipation building. 

The sound dies outside in a few hours, and the door to his room opens. Castiel has changed into a t-shirt and sleep pants. He climbs into Crowley’s bed. Sets Crowley’s book aside and plucks the glasses from the bridge of his nose. He folds them neatly. Places them on his nightstand.

Castiel straddles Crowley, leg between his. He presses Crowley back against the headboard. Kisses his forehead, his temples, the bridge of his nose. His cheekbones, his chin, until Crowley lifts his head, rasping, “Damn it, Cas.” 

Castiel grins. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.” He kisses Crowley’s lips, finally. 

Crowley winds arms around his waist and draws him closer. Tomorrow, who knows. But tonight, yes, they are certainly on the same page.

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) :)


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